


Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

by MintChocolateLeaves



Category: The Last Hours Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Forgiveness, Gen, Healing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mostly Gen, Recovery, Spoilers for CLS, Spoilers for CoG, post COG, redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28966155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintChocolateLeaves/pseuds/MintChocolateLeaves
Summary: Sometimes, the biggest part of forgiveness is that you form for yourself. No amount of forgiveness from those around him would settle into the space between his bones until Matthew Fairchild learned to forgive himself.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs & Matthew Fairchild, Matthew Fairchild & James Herondale, Matthew Fairchild & Lucie Herondale, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Kudos: 6





	Nothing Succeeds Like Excess

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the Oscar Wilde quote: 'Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.'
> 
> I reread COG the other day, for like the third time and Matthew is my favourite. If only he could forgive himself. I hope you like the opening chapter! (The prologue is short, but I'm hoping following chapters will be longer than this.)
> 
> This is mostly a gen fic! There might be some background ships, crushes and the likes but they're not the biggest part of this fic. It's all about the _healing._ (Alas, ships will be added to the tags as they're determined.)

**_Prologue - 1901_ **

* * *

“Luce,” Matthew Fairchild said, from his chair in the parlour room of the London Institute. The Herondale children, – _his Herondale’s,_ as he so affectionally called them – were each enjoying their own company, the flickering fire warming the parlour. James sat by the windowsill with his nose practically pressed to the pages of a book, Lucie with her fingers resting atop her typewriter.

Lucie raised her head from the latest chapter of the novel she’d been writing for her friend overseas. Cordelia Carstairs, she’d called her once, although both Herondale siblings typically referred to her as _Daisy._ Matthew wasn’t entirely sure as to why. “What is it, Matthew?”

She’d been keeping more distance from him recently, although Matthew did not blame her. He’d felt unworthy of her comfort when his mother had gotten sick and lost the life of… not the time to think of it for now. The truth of the matter was that Lucie had distanced herself after Matthew had rejected her comfort twice, and it had created a distance between the two of them.

Matthew would have to change that – he did not wish to cause anyone pain ever again. He’d already caused to much. It’d be better to bridge that gap and make sure to distance himself in a way that was not truly _distancing._

“I was wondering…” he began. James had lifted his eyes from his book, attention also temporarily torn from whatever world he had fallen into. “With your novels – you’ve placed yourself and James into fictional archetypes.”

“Oh yes,” Lucie said, with a wide grin. “James is the cruel prince.”

James sent his younger sibling an exasperated look.

“Very fitting,” Matthew said, amused. His _parabatai_ turned his gaze from his sister onto him, and Matthew offered a winning smile. James rolled his eyes and returned to his book. “But I find myself curious, which archetype do I fall into.”

Lucie took a moment to consider. Whenever she thought, her brows dipped slightly into a curious frown, the edge of her mouth curling slightly albeit not in a cruel way – Matthew had found himself the recipient of enough cruel smirks in his time, but never from Lucie, who had always been kind.

“I suppose you’d probably wish to be one of the archetypes found in Oscar Wilde’s works?” Lucie said, after some thought. “But I don’t think so.”

It was not disappointment that Matthew felt at her words, but rather, something worse. He was not entirely sure what it was – disbelief, perhaps? Matthew raised a brow instead of commenting. It would be simpler than trying to voice a response that was not forming naturally.

“I think,” Lucie continued, “that you would fit the consort archetype quite well. You’re passionate and you like to pursue beauty. It fits quite well, I’d say.”

 _No_ , Matthew thought, _it did not_.

Perhaps it had, once, but someone who fell into the consort archetype, a _lover,_ was not supposed to bring pain and tragedy to those they cared about. A consort trusted those they loved, they did not…

They did not do the things that Matthew had done. Unforgiveable things – like stealing a life. Almost stealing a second.

Truthfully, there was only one archetype Matthew felt he could accept, and it was also the furthest from the minds of anyone around him, far not because it was untrue but because he could never say.

One does not almost kill their mother, successfully kill their future sister, without falling directly into the villain archetype. He doesn’t know why he’d even asked Lucie – perhaps because he’d wondered what he could’ve been, had he not been stained by such a sin?

Matthew was not sure.

Instead of voice the swirling thoughts in his head, Matthew grinned, dipping his head into a nod at Lucie’s expectant gaze. “Of course, I should’ve known immediately. There’s no other archetype I could _possibly_ fit.”

“Oh, I don’t know Math,” James said, amusedly from beside him. He did not look up from the book, his voice muffled into the pages. “Sometimes you fit the jester archetype.”

“How _dare,”_ Matthew said with a laugh. It felt wrong, to be able to laugh after what he had done, but he would overthink it later, when he was alone. “I am more than comic _relief,_ Jamie.”

He went to swipe the book from James’ hand in revenge, but James was quicker. He plucked it from Matthew’s grasp within seconds, and Matthew let out a false huff of annoyance as his hands found nothing but air.

“Rudeness,” Matthew continued, “from one’s very own _parabatai.”_

James sent him a smile smirk, before reopening his book. James had the extraordinary skill of moving books quickly without creasing the pages – Matthew was sure any librarian would love him were his friend less shy and not enamoured with one, _Grace Blackthorn._ “It’s not rude if I’m telling the truth.”

“I think I understand now,” Matthew said with a solemn look to Lucie, who was watching them both with raised brows and amusement etched into the curves of her cheeks, lips tugging up. “Why he is the cruel prince.”

“Indeed,” Lucie said, with a laugh.


End file.
